Being a Shoulder to Cry On

  By admin | June 7, 2013 - 4:36 pm | ,
Leave a comment
Share

BytheNumbersEmily Garvin Clark went from being a young widow to being a facilitator in grief groups in her local area. Part of dealing with her grief was being able to learn how to help others deal with theirs. The giving back to others became part of her coping mechanisms. In today’s post, Emily talks about how listening can be helpful to the bereaved and she gives us seven tips for being a good listener. ~ Charity Gallardo, Blog Coordinator

Often times we don’t know what to say or do when faced with someone in our lives in the throes of grief. We are afraid of putting our foot in our mouth or asking the wrong thing. The good news is we don’t really have to say anything at all. We just have to listen. Being a good listener to someone who is grieving can be one of the greatest gifts we can give.

But what does being a good listener really look like? Well, it’s fairly simple and only requires a little bit of extra effort on your part.

  1. Get rid of distractions. Shut off the cell phone, close the door if you are somewhere with commotion or traffic happening outside. Leave the television or radio off. Face away from the clock to avoid checking the time.

  2. Listen with more than your ears. This means engaging the person who is talking with your entire body. Lean forward in your chair, refrain from crossing your arms, and make eye contact. Hold a soft gaze rather than staring (staring won’t make you seem interested so much as just plain creepy).

  3. Don’t interrupt. Sometimes this can be the hardest one. For extroverts like me, biting your tongue to keep from bursting out with a story of your own can make you sweat with exertion. But interrupting is a clear signal to the talker that you don’t value what they are saying. In fact, it’s sort of like holding a flashing neon sign that shouts, “My story is better than yours!”
     669962_81397996
  4. Leave your judgements at the door. Forget what you think you know on grief. No book you have read or previous loss of your own can prepare you for what the griever is going through at this very moment. Each person’s grief journey is unique and what might have worked for you won’t necessarily work for them (or anyone else). Above all else, refrain from giving advice!

  5. Reaffirm what is said. Repeat or paraphrase back to the griever what they have said. This is important because it shows you were listening and can help ensure you haven’t misunderstood anything. Acknowledge what the griever is going through with simple statements like, “that must have been really difficult.”

  6.  If you don’t know what to say, say nothing. Don’t feel pressured to speak or come up with something eloquent. The griever isn’t talking to you with an expectation that you are there to solve their problems or suddenly give them insight into their grief that they hadn’t considered before. In fact, they are the experts on their grief – not you. If you are a nervous talker who can’t help but fill the silence, work on simply nodding or asking a question instead.

  7. Respect confidentiality. Above all else, remember that sharing your grief with someone else can be a daunting and terrifying task. The griever is being very vulnerable by talking about their loss and the worst thing you can possibly do is show them that you are not trustworthy by repeating anything they have said to someone else. This is a sacred covenant of the griever and listener and needs to be remembered at all times. If you find yourself overwhelmed or desperately needing to talk about what you have hard, go to a professional counselor who will be a listener to you and maintain your confidentiality.

Sometimes the best thing you can do for someone in pain is not to speak but to listen.

Emily blogs about being a young widow on her blog One Day at a Time and at Hello Grief.

Image courtesy gratsy / stock.xchng

 

 

Honor and Courage

  By admin | May 24, 2013 - 3:16 pm | , , ,
Leave a comment
Share

Our blog post today is written by a woman who knows what it means to give your life in service to your country. Taryn Davis is the Executive Director and Founder of the American Widow Project, an organization for widows whose husbands died while in the military. Her words, like the work she does, inspires us. This Memorial Day we honor those who serve our country now, those who served in the past, the many who died for our freedom, and the families of soldiers past and present who sacrifice every day for our nation. We know that freedom isn’t free. Thank you. ~Charity Gallardo, Blog Coordinator

Being deeply loved by someone gives you strength, while loving someone deeply gives you courage.
-Lao Tzu

Memorial Day is this month, and it comes every year with many people asking what I’ll be doing, how I’ll be honoring a day that my husband fought and died to be recognized as a part of.

http://www.dreamstime.com/stock-photography-army-uniform-image4814622I guess in a way these days (Veteran’s and Memorial Day) are not so much any different than yesterday or the day before, as they’re days that I am reminded of daily with Michael’s absence…with his uniforms that hang lifeless in the closet…with the flag displayed on the shelf. But it’s a day brought to the attention of those outside of my realm, and so a day that I am able to talk about him a bit more and know he’s being remembered.

So my answer for what I will do this month is: Remember his strength and courage. Remember the love that was shown to him and that he showed others that gave him the ability to sacrifice his all in the name of sanctifying those attributes and the root of their being. I’ll reflect on how lucky I am that he chose me, not only to love, but to bear his legacy and what he stood for in case he should never return. I’ll think of the men and women of the military that allowed him to flourish in his purpose in life and allowed him the ability to die having found it. I’ll think of April 9th, 2007, the last time I kissed him in the airport. I’ll think of the many like me who shared that kiss they never thought would be their last. I’ll think about those that came before him and after him in serving our country. I’ll remember in my darkest hours to tap into what he embodied. I’ll think of how proud I am of him (and all of our military) and how I hope to make him proud, too…

I’ll think about what I think about each and every day.

Taryn Davis Founder/Exec. Director, American Widow Project
www.americanwidowproject.org and www.widowu.org
“Unifying, Educating and Empowering our Nation’s Military Widows”

Tel: (877) 297.9436 | FacebookYouTubeTwitter

Behind the Veil

  By admin | May 21, 2013 - 9:17 pm | , , , ,
Leave a comment
Share

We heard recently from Emily Garvin Clark about how she had to relearn how to care for herself after the loss of her husband. In today’s post, Dan Cano talks about similar things. Dan’s grief after the loss of his husband affected him and his entire family. It also affected his view of life and of the people around him. Living with grief is a unique experience that colors every part of your daily routine and how you feel about everything. Knowing how others experience grief helps us to understand and deal with our own pain. ~ Charity Gallardo, Blog Coordinator

Today has been a day for me to bear witness to the collective pain and sorrow being experienced around this world by those who grieve. There was once a time when all of us were separated by mountains and oceans. When we grieved privately in our homes, and we came to know isolation better than our closest neighbors.

These days we are all connected in ways our ancestors couldn’t even imagine. We can have immediate connections with someone across the world. We can write about our pain and sorrow, and send it floating into cyber-space like a note in a bottle. Eventually, and sooner than we thought, our words will find a home on the screen of a willing companion. If we are patient, empathy will begin traveling our way.

910278_47990856So why is it so hard for people in close proximity to sit with our pain? Why is it that those near us want us to be better sooner? Why is it that we feel the need to wear a smile in order to attract a willing visitor?

I ask these questions not just for myself, but for people who I know are really hurting today. The winter holidays are here, and it is an unbearable reminder that, for some of us, it is not a time of comfort and joy. I make no attempt to hide the truth here, people I have come to care about are feeling very isolated, alone.

For those that have an extra burden beyond the emotional darkness I have come to know, I offer myself up as proof that we need some gentle kindness. I am willing to stand before you and lift the veil that shields the face of one who mourns.

I may have the look of someone who is functioning well, but it is all a charade. I get up each morning and polish myself to a shine. What you don’t see is that I have the benefit of having two wardrobes to choose from. I haven’t done my laundry in weeks, so I have been digging into Michael’s things rather than muster the energy needed to do my own. On the chair beside my bed is a pile of clean clothing, and soiled clothing, it’s all the same to me. My house is clean, but not because I have kept it that way. I am fortunate enough to have a house keeper who comes in every couple of weeks. In between her visits, nothing is getting done. I haven’t cooked a meal in a few weeks either. It’s been take out, drive through, or microwave. My garden has gone uncared for, and is mostly dying off. The fountain that I once cherished is completely dry, and the motor still running, I suppose. I haven’t bothered to check. I have many neat piles of mail gathering around the house. I gather the mail each day, but never open any of it. This is a new development. I’m not quite sure why I don’t, I just don’t. My bills haven’t been paid this month, not for the lack of funds, solely for lack of motivation.

1088202_81558771Now to the casual observer, this may just seem like ordinary living. But to those that know me well, those who know the person that was previously known as Dan, I no longer seize to exist. I am one of the most type A, compulsively neat and orderly people you will find. I pride myself on always having it together. For the past three months, I could really care less. What is the point of it all? It’s all meaningless to me.

My lover is gone. I am left with an enormous hole in my heart. Everything around me feels like it is falling apart. The lives of my children have become reflective of their suffering as well. We are all trying to stay afloat, but sinking more than swimming. I have lost my perspective. I am tired of caring, tired of trying, just plain tired. Where is our comfort? Where is our joy? I no longer feel equipped to fully keep my family properly nourished in body or soul.

So here I am for your observation. This is someone in grief. This is someone who has lost their source of joy. This is someone who is unfortunately not unique. If you know someone who is grieving, reach out to them. If they are not very festive, cut them some slack. And know this, they appreciate the simplest of gestures.

Give them comfort until they are once again able to know joy.

Reprinted by permission of Blogger Dan Cano of Dan, In Real Time

Photos courtesy Stock.xchng.

Identity Crisis

  By admin | May 10, 2013 - 4:40 pm | , , ,
Leave a comment
Share

Emily Garvin Clark’s journey through grief has lessons for all of us on how to cope. Today’s lesson is about reclaiming yourself and, even more, your sense of self after the death of your spouse. Widows who feel the same as Emily did should seek some assistance. The W Connection is one place you can go to find answers and empathy. ~ Charity Gallardo, Blog Coordinator

How I reclaimed who I was after the loss of my husband.

There is a startling identity vacuum that accompanies loss. Those caught in the wake of grief are often swallowed up by feelings of inadequacy, confusion, and crumbling self esteem – something I never could have understood until my own husband passed away.

For nine years Craig made up such an enormous part of my life, it became impossible to imagine one without him. I was his beautiful wife, the funny girl with a million stories about work, the listening ear at the end of the day, his cooking buddy, and junk food enabler. We finished each other’s sentences and called each other first when trapped on a crowded train in the dead of winter. We were each other’s best friend and looked forward to dates at the grocery store and weekends of sifting through comics and old books at the flea market. We sang at the top of our lungs in the car together and made ourselves laugh so hard we often had to stop for me to run in somewhere to pee.

We became everything to each other. And for those nine years, the me I saw was the me reflected back through my husband’s eyes. I knew I was funny because I always made him laugh. I knew I could be sweet because I was his sweetheart. I was smart because I was the first person he came to for advice. I was beautiful because I always caught him looking.

The day he died, I stopped knowing who I was.

ID-10072071No longer did I have a mirror walking around, reflecting back to me who I thought I was. I didn’t have anyone to laugh at my jokes, not that I had many at the time. Gone were the days of my husband greeting me at the door, snuggling up to me for movies, and curling against me at night. The lack of physical contact left me bereft – I’d never felt less attractive, less beautiful. Of course incessant sobbing that left mascara tracks down my face and a constantly running nose didn’t help.

Along with the physical shock to my body – that wonderfully included constant nausea, sweat-inducing anxiety, and frequent chest pains that left me doubled-over gasping for air – my mind decided to call it quits. While I had previously taken pride in my work, always studying up and reading to be one step ahead of very question, every task, I had suddenly inherited the attention span of a goldfish with a memory to match. A coworker would tell me something and 20 minutes later I’d have to ask them all over again what they had said. Then again in another hour. And at least twice more by lunch. I couldn’t think, couldn’t focus, and the years and years of facts I had accumulated for my work trickled out of my mind like a leaky tap.

I suddenly became as incapable and feeble as everyone around me seemed to think I was. I couldn’t figure out how to turn on the lawn mower. I couldn’t change a simple light fixture. I couldn’t seem to remember that my car keys didn’t fit in the house door. I bumped into every pointy surface, spilled all things spillable, and couldn’t put a shirt on the right way to save my life.

Everywhere I went people gave me a wide berth and while I knew, logically, it was merely out of discomfort, I began feeling more and more like a social pariah, as though my grief was the worst kind of infectious disease. I’d walk into rooms and instantly the conversation would stop. Or the whispering would begin.

It’s no wonder I was lost.

Gone were the days of the smart me, the funny me, the clever me, the me who could take on the world. At best I was broken. At worst, I didn’t exist at all.

The hardest part in this was trying to articulate what was happening to me. That I had lost my identity – everything I thought I was. Everything I knew myself to be. It wasn’t until the day I caught myself whooping with delight over de-clogging my own bathtub drain for the first time that I realized what needed to be done.

I needed to take back me.

I started small. I learned how to hang my own pictures in the house. I forced myself to shovel my own walk. I reminded myself to put on both earrings before leaving the house. I even shaved my legs. Both of them. On the same day.

With those small tasks underway, I began stretching further. I forced myself out of the house to meet new people. I tried new things. I played pool. I tried rollerblading. I swam with dolphins and went speed boating. I sweated through yoga and even entered a photography contest. I made my first cheesecake from scratch. I wanted to push myself out of my comfort zone, inch by painful inch.

Soon I began tackling the bigger things on my life list. I travelled, visiting places I’d never gone to but always secretly yearned for. I changed my wardrobe. I cut my hair. I bought sexy bras.

Then I took the biggest leap yet – I finally summoned the courage to leave my career and go back to school, starting all over. It wasn’t easy. That first semester was one of the hardest things I’d done and every day I dragged myself to class, feeling beyond uncomfortable over the obvious age gap between me and the other students. My attention span and memory were still not what they once were (and likely never will be) but I hunkered down and forced myself ahead.

Every new challenge became a new victory.

Getting my first A, finding a new job, surviving my personal trainer at the gym.

And slowly, slowly I began to find me again.

ID-10036935Turns out with a little bit of make-up and the right pair of heels I could still be beautiful. While I’ll certainly never pass for athletic, I could finally do a full hour of weights and sprints without fainting. While it means working at bit harder, I still get my straight A’s and even won a scholarship. Now I’m on the dean’s list. And after amassing a new set of great stories, it turns out I can still be pretty funny. Even if I’m only making me laugh.

The nice side effect of all this is that I’m starting to love not only my life again, but trying new things as well. I can’t wait to start fencing lessons and plan on giving snowboarding a try this winter. I am volunteering as a grief group facilitator in town and have recently taken up hot yoga. Given my lack of athletic prowess, it’s not surprising that the latter actually makes me cry more.

But I’m getting to know me all over again.

And you know what?

I kind of like it.

It’s good to be me again.

Emily Garvin Clarke blogs about being a young widow on her blog One Day at a Time and at Hello Grief.

Images courtesy of David Castillo Dominici and photostock / FreeDigitalPhotos.net

Dealing with Loss, Grief, and Obsessions

  By admin | May 3, 2013 - 3:51 pm | ,
Leave a comment
Share

 This is our second time reposting an older article of Father Ron Rolheiser’s. Father Ron’s words resonate with any of us who have lost someone. He also reiterates advice that most of us know to be true: in the face of the grief of others, sometimes all we can do to help is be there for the person. Wise words we should all remember. ~ Charity Gallardo, Blog Coordinator

What can we say in the face of deep loss, inconsolable grief, or unrequited obsessions?

As a graduate student in Louvain, I once posed that question to the renowned psychologist, Antoine Vergote: “When you lose a loved one, either through death or because that person dies to you in some other way, what can you do? What can you say to help someone in that situation?”

His answer was cautious, words to this effect: “When someone is grieving a deep loss, there is a period of time when psychology finds itself rather helpless. The pain of death or the pain of losing a deep relationship can trigger a paralysis that is not easy to reach into and dissolve. Psychology admits its limits here. Sometimes I think that the poets and novelists are of more use in this than is psychology. But, even there, they can offer some insight but I am not sure anyone can do much to take away the pain. There are some things in life before which we simply stand helpless.”

That was, I believe, a wise and realistic answer. The death of a loved one, or even just the pain of an unrequited obsession, can bring us to our knees, literally, and, as the author of Lamentations says, leave us with no other option than to “put our mouths to the dust, and wait!”  Sometimes, for a period of time, the pain of loss is so deep and obsessive that no clinic, no therapy, and no religious word of comfort can do much for us.

ID-10072068I remember, twenty-five years ago, sitting with a friend who had, that day, been rejected by his girlfriend. He had proposed marriage to her and had received a clear and definitive refusal. He was shattered, utterly. For some days afterwards he had trouble simply going through the motions of ordinary living, struggling to eat, to sleep, to work. A number of us took turns sitting with him, listening to his grief, trying to distract him by taking him to movies, without really having much effect in terms of drawing him out of his depression and obsession.  Eventually, of course, he slowly began to emerge from the grip of that over-concentration and, still further down the road, was able to regain his freedom and resiliency. But there was a time during which we, his friends, could not do anything else for him other than to be with him.

What can anyone say to someone who is in the throes of a deep loss or in the grips of an unrequited emotional obsession? We have our stock expressions which are not without merit: Life must go on. Every morning will bring a new day and eventually time will heal things. Remember too you are not alone; you have family and friends to lean on. Beyond that, you have faith. God will help you through this.

All of that is true, and important, but not particularly consoling or helpful during an overpowering period of grief.  I remember writing a series of letters to a woman who had lost her husband to suicide and was totally shattered by that, believing that she would never experience happiness again. Time and time again I repeated the same lines to her: “This will get better – but not right now! Time will heal this, but its rhythm cannot be rushed. You will get better, but it will take time!”

Is there anything practical beyond this that we can offer someone who is in deep grief or in the grip of a bitter emotional obsession?

In 1936, when his sister, Marguerite-Marie, died, Pierre Teilhard de Chardin wrote these words in a letter: “I feel that a great void has opened in my life – or rather in the world around me – a great void of which I shall become increasingly aware. … The only way of making life bearable again is to love and adore that which, beneath everything else, animates and directs it.”

Antoine Vergote suggests that sometimes time, only time, can bring about healing and that in the interim the only real option is to bear the unbearable, to try to get one foot in front of the next, stoically, with patience, holding our pain with as much dignity as we can muster, while waiting for time to eventually work its alchemy, knowing that nothing can short-circuit that process.

But Teilhard suggests there is something that can help make the unbearable bearable, namely, a more conscious, deliberate effort to love and to adore.

How do we do that? Not easily. But we do it when, despite our crippling obsessions, restlessness, frustration, bitterness, and anxiety, we let our generous and noble side be the deepest voice inside of both our sympathies and our actions. When we are driven to our knees by loss and frustration, the best, and only useful, thing we can do is to genuflect in helplessness before a God who can help us and express our affection to anyone who can support us.

Used with permission of the author, Oblate Father Ron Rolheiser. Currently, Father Rolheiser is serving as President of the Oblate School of Theology in San Antonio Texas. He can be contacted through his website, www.ronrolheiser.com.

Image courtesy of David Castillo Dominici / FreeDigitalPhotos.net